


Early Turning Point

by wheel_pen



Series: Malachite [1]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery, Tuyurik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luks helps his father’s beaten slave, and gains a little of his trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Turning Point

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Inherent in the idea of slavery are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            Luks was perusing the wine rack after supper one evening, searching for the perfect vintage to get drunk on—something good, of course, but not so good that he regretted opening it later, since he wouldn’t exactly be savoring it on the way down. Also, if it could be something expensive that his father would be really irritated to lose, so much the better. He was just contemplating a likely candidate when he heard a noise in the far corner—a mouse, perhaps? If it _was_ a pest of some kind, heads were going to roll in the servants’ quarters. But yet it didn’t sound like a rodent—it was more of a… sniffling, almost. A human sound.

            Luks picked up a bottle he wouldn’t mind losing if he had to crack it over someone’s head and moved quietly to the last aisle of racks. There was definitely… _something_ moving in the shadows at the end. A servant who snuck off for an unauthorized break, perhaps? A _real_ intruder? Luks gripped the neck of the wine bottle more tightly, feeling a small amount of excitement build within him. Usually his days were so boring, even the possibility of encountering someone dangerous in this secluded area of the house held some interest for him.

            Coming from the lighter portion of the room, Luks really couldn’t rely on the element of surprise. So he paused partway down the aisle and called out, “Who’s there?” The something in the corner jerked a little bit, as if just realizing it had been caught, but there was no other reaction.

            Luks took another couple of steps forward. “I know you’re there,” he assured the something. “Come out now.” The shape looked more human now, someone curled up tightly between the end of the last rack and the wall—someone who was not interested in responding to him.

            Luks moved even closer, until he was just a few feet away. “Come on, let’s go,” he said firmly. “There’s no use trying to hide anymore. Come on, get out of there.”

            “Leave me alone.” The words were mumbled but recognizable, and Luks decided it probably wasn’t a potential wine thief.

            “Come on, you can’t hide in here,” he ordered, relaxing a little bit.

            “Just—go away and leave me alone,” the figure replied, tone slightly pleading.

            The voice, though scratchy and muffled, sounded somewhat familiar to Luks and he leaned in, trying to catch the light as best he could. “Who is that?” he asked. “Let me see you.”

            “Please,” the person repeated, more loudly, “just leave me—“

            “Malachite?” Luks was certain he was right when he saw the green eyes catch the meager light as they snapped up in surprise. “Malachite, is that you?” The lack of answer didn’t dissuade Luks. “Malachite, what are you doing down here?” Although Luks couldn’t blame his father’s personal plaything for wanting to hide out for a while, it was still a pretty stupid thing to do… especially if his father was looking for him.

            The boy sniffed and swallowed hard, and Luks guessed that he had been crying. Again, unsurprising—Ataneq was nothing if not skilled in reducing the people around him to tears. In their previous home, there had been a particular broom closet Luks preferred for _his_ childhood pity parties... although Luks’s complaints weren’t exactly the same as this boy’s. “Come on, Malachite,” Luks coaxed, sliding the wine bottle he carried into a random empty slot that would horrify later visitors. He crouched down, trying to get a better look. “Have you been in here all day?” Now that he thought about it, Luks hadn’t seen the lad for quite some time—usually he at least passed him lurking in a corner sullenly now and then. “You can’t hide out forever. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

            “Just please go away,” Malachite told him again, voice rough and defeated.

            Luks sighed. He felt sorry for the boy, he really did—he was a beautiful creature, and Ataneq treated him appallingly. All he required was a little special handling—like a racehorse, Luks had decided, who was high maintenance but always performed when it counted. And Luks could think of a number of ways he would have the boy perform for _him_ , were he in charge.

            “Malachite, you can’t stay down here,” Luks reasoned. “I bet you haven’t eaten anything all day. Let’s at least go upstairs—“ He reached in to touch the boy’s knee, to encourage him to crawl out, but he broke off his remarks when he heard the hiss of pain. “Malachite?” Somewhat labored breathing. “Malachite, are you alright?” No response. Luks reached in again, with more determination, and caught an arm. The boy made a noise of protest, a howl really, but Luks refused to let go.

            Finally Malachite tumbled out of the corner on his knees. He was dressed only in his usual dark leather pants, no shirt or shoes to conceal the rest of his exquisitely toned, tanned body. But Luks wasn’t staring at him appreciatively this time—he was staring in shock at the huge red welts that crisscrossed his smooth skin, all across his back.

            Luks dropped down beside him to get a better look. “Malachite, what the h—l?” he asked in confusion. The furious marks were up and down the boy’s arms as well, and when Luks turned him towards the light he could see them on his chest also. Cupping the boy’s chin in his hand, Luks examined his face; Malachite refused to meet his gaze as the older man noted the various bruises marring his features.

            After a moment, Luks let him go and stepped back a bit. Malachite stayed on his knees, curled into himself, shivering a little. Luks saw the marks trailing below the waistband of his pants, and he tried _not_ to imagine why, exactly, the boy preferred to kneel instead of sitting flat on the ground. There was no need to ask what had happened, or who was responsible for Malachite’s state; everyone in the castle knew Ataneq’s meeting with the barons the day before had not gone well, and apparently he had taken out his frustrations on the boy. Even the lowliest scullery maid or hall boy had a supervisor to look out for them; Ataneq, as master of the castle, could still thrash whatever servant he wanted to, of course, but _someone_ would take care of them, hide them away somewhere, until he forgot his anger. But a bedslave was the lowest of the low, yet ironically the most intimately connected with the master of the house, and he had no one to shield him, no barrier against the wrath of his owner. So Malachite hid in the wine cellar, banking on his extraordinary healing powers to see him through.

            Luks didn’t have to think for too long before he decided he just couldn’t leave him there alone. “Come on, Malachite,” he said, gesturing vaguely upwards and towards the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

            The teenager hunched over tightly, wrapping his arms around himself, his shivering more pronounced. He shook his head firmly by way of reply, his jaw set. “Malachite, you need some help,” Luks reasoned. “Let’s go upstairs and get those... injuries looked at.”

            “I’ll be fine,” Malachite muttered through clenched teeth. “I just need some time...”

            The boy’s rapid healing powers were a major part of his appeal for most of his previous owners, Luks knew, but he wondered if in the end they had brought him more harm than good. In just a week or two Malachite could recover from a beating or one of the more... exotic games of the rough trade that might cripple another person. Which meant, of course, that he was physically ready for _another_ bout of such treatment all the sooner. Really, Luks reflected, it was a wonder he hadn’t turned into a wild beast _entirely_ by this point.

            “You’ll heal faster somewhere warm, with some food in you,” Luks assured him. “I’ll call someone I know,” he added. “Someone who works for me and not my father.”

            The teenager’s blazing green eyes met his for the first time, and Luks knew he was being assessed, questioned. Why would he want to help his father’s bedslave? What did he hope to gain by it? Was he lying completely and just waiting to throw the boy into the furious grip of his master? “We’ll take the back elevator up to my room,” Luks continued, trying to assuage Malachite’s doubts. “No one will see us. And I’ll get you something to eat.”

            The promise of a meal was what finally swayed the boy, Luks thought. Virtually the only time the older man had seen Malachite _not_ furious and miserable was when he’d had a particularly tasteful and plentiful array of food to consume. Slowly Malachite unwound his arms, moving stiffly with the pain and the cold. He tried to stand and leaned heavily on the wall for support, shying away from Luks’s offered hand. Well, he wouldn’t be able to avoid him for long, Luks knew. Two seconds on his feet and the teenager staggered dangerously, with Luks catching him just in time. The boy had three or four inches and more than a few pounds on the older man, but Luks felt he managed to not embarrass himself as he hauled Malachite back upright.

            The teenager gritted his teeth against the pain of Luks’s clothes rubbing the raw skin on his arm and chest, but there wasn’t a whole lot Luks could do to alleviate the contact. “Come on, Malachite,” he said again encouragingly, half-guiding, half-dragging the boy towards the door.

            They had to walk farther down the dim basement hallway to get to the back elevator, but Luks thought it was worth it to avoid the servants, who would mostly be concentrated at the front of the house this time of day, cleaning up from dinner. There were only a few of the staff he could trust not to go running off to his father to say they’d found his favorite toy... and his son... and they were headed in _this_ direction. Malachite seemed to get a little stronger as they went along, which was helpful, but once they were in the elevator he dropped to his knees and Luks let him go. The only sounds were the whir of the elevator as it approached the third floor and the slightly labored breathing of the two occupants.

            When the doors opened again Luks looked around the hall carefully, making sure it was clear before he pulled Malachite up and dragged him swiftly to his suite. He always kept it locked, which proved to be somewhat inconvenient at the moment, but Luks was able to open it and pull the boy inside, out of view. At least it wouldn’t look suspicious when Luks had his door locked _now_.

            Malachite seemed to think he was headed for the couch in the sitting room but Luks drew him through into the bedroom and eased him down onto the clean, soft, dark maroon sheets that were promptly stained with blood from reopened wounds. Luks tried not to mind; after all, his father could afford more. Luks draped the sheet lightly over the teenager; he was still shivering, but Luks was afraid the heavier blanket would put too much pressure on his injuries. Malachite lay uncomfortably on his side, clutching at a pillow, eyes closed, while Luks picked up the phone and dialed the kitchen.

            “Yes, I’m starving,” he told the assistant cook who answered. “Send a snack up to me... I don’t care, anything... And a bucket of ice, too,” Luks added quickly.

            The next call he made on his cell phone, which he knew his father couldn’t trace. “Toby? It’s me. Are you in the mansion?... Good. I need you in my room _now_. Bring your bag and don’t be seen.” He hung up and turned back to the bed. Malachite’s sea green eyes were open again, watching him intently. Luks watched right back. He’d never been intimidated by having a half-naked teenager in his bed _before_ , and he wasn’t going to start _now_.

            “Why are you helping me?” Malachite finally asked, his voice slightly raw and muffled by the pillow.

            Luks smirked a little at him. “I’m interested in helping _anyone_ my father dislikes,” he answered lightly.

            Smiling was too painful, so instead Malachite just sighed and closed his eyes. “Sometimes it’s really hard to tell whether you’re liked or disliked,” he answered. Given the usual temperament of the boy’s masters, Luks could see where the confusion arose.

            Before he could think of a response to that comment there was a knock on the door and both men tensed. Luks gave the teenager a look that warned him to stay put, then shut the bedroom door before crossing the sitting room. He opened the door to the hall and found one of the kitchen boys waiting with a cart. “Bring it on in,” Luks told him. Fruit, cookies, juice, rolls—the cook must have thought he was entertaining a party of twenty in his room.

            Once the boy was gone, with the door safely locked behind him, Luks wheeled the cart into the bedroom. Malachite’s battered expression took on a distinctly covetous look when he saw it. “How about we start slow, with some orange juice?” Luks suggested, and of course Malachite nodded. He was, after all, trained to be a slave who would take what he was given.

            He had messily downed half a glass when there was another knock at the door, and Luks hurried to admit the fortyish man standing in the hall, quickly glancing around to make sure there were no witnesses to his arrival. Toby was, unfortunately, somewhat distinctive in his appearance—shaggy silver hair, bandanna around his head, stoner rock group t-shirt, doctor’s bag. People tended to remember spotting someone like that.

            Out of habit Toby looked Luks up and down as he was ushered inside, but saw nothing obviously broken or bleeding. “Dude, if it’s a fix you wanted, you shoulda told me on the phone,” he complained, his voice a lazy drawl. “I didn’t have time to grab anything but the OTC stuff.”

            Luks rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I wanted. Come here.”

            As soon as Toby entered the bedroom Malachite fixed him with the glare of death all strangers received. The older man, though not really as nervous as he should be, nonetheless recognized the boy. “Holy s—t, man,” he exclaimed to Luks in an incongruously flat tone, “isn’t that the kid your dad picked up?”

            “Very astute, Toby,” Luks told him, then chastised himself for being too sarcastic. At least the sarcasm could wait until _after_ Toby was done. Luks pulled the sheet back, exposing Malachite’s injuries, and Toby winced. “Can you patch him up?”

            Behind the seemingly hazy eyes, medical wheels were turning. “Yeah,” he finally decided. “It’ll be a mess, though.”

            Luks shrugged. The sheets were already ruined. “Go for it.”

            “Okay, dude.” Toby stepped closer, setting his bag down on the foot of the bed. Malachite hadn’t let up his glare or relaxed the tension in his body, which Luks could see might become a problem.

            “Malachite, this is Toby, he’s a friend of mine,” Luks assured the teenager. “He’s a doctor. You’re going to be fine.” Malachite’s posture eased a small amount—at least until Toby reached for the waistband of his pants and the boy jerked away, fairly growling.

            “Okay, okay, kid,” Toby placated him, stepping back. “The pants have to come off, though. Looks like you got some injuries under there, too.”

            “I’ll do it,” Luks offered, and Malachite didn’t say no.

            Toby just shook his head. “Whatever, dude. I’ll get some towels.”

            Luks sat down on the edge of the bed carefully and reached for the button on the leather trousers. “Try to calm down a little, Malachite,” he suggested, easing the zipper open. He had, he freely admitted, had more than one fantasy about just this event—only there hadn’t been quite so much blood in his version. “He might not look like a real doctor, but he’s pretty good.”

            “I don’t see many doctors,” Malachite pointed out, rolling onto his stomach as Luks pulled the dark pants over his hips. Luks avoided looking at any of the flesh revealed at least down to his knees; not only did he _not_ want that temptation in his mind, he also didn’t want to see the full extent of the injuries the boy had received. At least as far as Luks knew—which was already more than he was comfortable knowing—his father wasn’t normally given to S &M, but when he was in a foul mood Ataneq could be very... creative about expressing his frustrations.

            Luks stripped the pants off and tossed them aside, then dropped the sheet back over the boy, however temporary the cover might be. Toby was still digging through Luks’s medicine and linen cabinets, leaving him to face the boy who watched him with wide, wary eyes. “You want some... bread or something?” Luks suggested, gesturing towards the tray of food. Malachite shrugged indifferently but his eyes told a different story, and Luks was about to hand him a roll to gnaw on when Toby wandered back out with a stack of towels.

            “Okay, kid, let’s get to work,” he announced, almost cheerfully. Toby had been stripped of his medical license several years earlier for writing one too many prescriptions for himself, but the knowledge, and the desire, were still intact. Luks had turned to him a number of times over the years for injuries he didn’t want anyone _official_ knowing anything about.

            Toby yanked back the sheet with a flare and Luks turned away, towards the food, unsure of what he should do—go in the other room and pretend to watch TV? The protocol for this particular situation escaped him. He heard Toby whistle behind him. “Your old man was sure in a temper, huh?” the former M.D. commented. “Shoulda called me three days ago.”

            Pretending to poke at the food on the tray, although he was far from hungry himself, Luks asked, “What do you mean, three days ago?”

            “When he _got_ injured,” Toby clarified. “He’s already healing over. I’ll probably have to open ‘em up a bit, to disinfect them.”

            Luks almost turned to face him but stopped himself. “He was just injured last night,” he explained. “He heals quickly.”

            Toby snorted. “Lucky you, kid.”

            Luks chanced a glance at Malachite’s face and saw it screwed up tight, making an obvious effort to breathe regularly as he clutched at the pillow. Luks couldn’t tell if he was more scared or more in pain, but he definitely wasn’t happy. Luks certainly wasn’t going to look further back to see what Toby was actually _doing_ to him, however.

            The older man sighed in exasperation. “Okay, kid,” he said with resignation, reaching for his bag. “I’m gonna give you a little something to relax you, nothing strong—“

            “No,” Malachite ground out. Luks watched his face carefully.

            “Kid, _I’m_ the one holdin’ a sharp object back here, so _you_ definitely don’t want _me_ to be worried about you freakin’ out any second,” Toby tried to tell him. “It won’t knock you out, just take the edge off—“

            Malachite turned his head back as far as he could and growled. “No.” Of course Toby could try to do it anyway; in terms of hierarchy, the teenager was even lower in status than an unlicensed physician. But it was obvious to everyone in the room that injured or not, Malachite was going to fight this particular suggestion with everything he had.

            There was a pause, then Toby snapped his bag shut. “Fine then,” he said, standing.

            “Where are you going?” Luks asked in alarm, his gaze carefully missing the boy’s bared, bloodied body as he turned.

            “Keep your cash, Luks,” Toby told him shortly. “I’m not workin’ on a kid who could turn and snap my neck in a second.”

            Luks sighed. “Toby, he’s just nervous,” he placated.

            “ _He’s_ nervous?” Toby shot back. “ _I’m_ nervous.”

            Luks rolled his eyes and thought for a moment, then carefully sat down on the edge of the bed beside the boy. “Malachite,” he said firmly, and the boy looked up from where he’d buried his face in the pillow. “I know it’s difficult, but I need you to relax, so Toby can help you. You might heal quickly, but you could still get an infection that will knock you out for a long time. And my father isn’t exactly going to give you sick leave if that happens.” It was a low blow, Luks could see it on the boy’s face, but it was the truth. “So just think of... something relaxing, something happy”—Malachite’s eyes dropped, and Luks wondered for a moment if he even _had_ any happy memories to draw on—“and Toby will be done before you know it.” To punctuate what he hoped was a soothing speech, Luks lifted a hand and ran his fingers through the boy’s silky dark hair, the tangled strands soft against his skin. The teenager laid his head back down on the pillow slowly and closed his eyes, and Luks could see some of the tension drain out of his muscles.

            He felt the bed dip as Toby settled back down, so Luks reluctantly pulled his hand away and started to rise. Malachite whimpered a bit and cracked an eyelid, and Luks felt helplessly drawn back. “You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured, brushing the dark hair back behind the boy’s ear, just to play with it. “You’ll be alright.” In a few moments Malachite’s breathing was more even, his muscles more relaxed, even as he winced occasionally at whatever Toby was doing. Luks refused to speculate.

            “Okay, kid, this is gonna hurt,” Toby warned after several minutes of silence, and the boy’s eyes screwed up tight, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he tried to avoid crying out. Luks was startled to realize his own hands had stopped moving and ordered them to resume their hopefully soothing strokes, trying to banish the stray thought that had felt an awful lot like a cosmic offer to trade places with the boy rather than see him in pain.

            Malachite buried his face in the soft pillow, his fingers clutching it tightly from the other side, already tearing holes in the fine fabric. Luks knew he was supposed to be stronger than an ordinary person as well—another highly-prized Iqniq trait, like the fast healing—and he wondered, as he occasionally did, why Malachite and others like him didn’t use their abilities to break out of the servitude that bound them to cold and abusive masters. “Relax, it’s okay,” he suggested quietly. Toby had seen him drunk, naked, high, puking, bleeding, and incoherent (one memorable night, _all_ at the same time), but for some reason Luks felt at his most vulnerable at the moment, whispering random words of comfort to someone who ought to be a total stranger. “He’s almost done.” Luks hoped he was right.

            The boy suddenly relaxed, let out the breath he’d been holding, and Luks felt the movement of Toby pulling away. “Okay, kid, turn over, let’s see the front.” Malachite shifted onto his side on the mattress, his bright green, slightly damp eyes at the perfect angle to bore into Luks’s blue-grey ones. Luks thought this ought to make him uncomfortable, this close and slightly suspicious scrutiny, but instead it felt only fair. He stared right back, his hand resting lightly on the boy’s arm, fingers massaging slowly.


End file.
